


The Bad Years

by weirdmilk



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Never Met, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Oikawa Went to Shiratorizawa, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-26 17:45:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13862733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdmilk/pseuds/weirdmilk
Summary: In high school Iwaizumi supposes he’d been happy. He'd never thought about it, so he must have been. He'd split his time between various sports clubs, large and comfortable groups of friends and arm wrestling tournaments - from which he always emerged as the unscathed victor. It had been good, and he’d felt good, and he’d assumed he’d always feel the same easy contentment.Life has cheerfully and repeatedly proven him wrong.While waiting for his therapy appointment, Iwaizumi meets a pretty man who looks expensive, and sounds like a moron.





	1. Chapter 1

It never feels comfortable inside that room, no matter how many fake plants and coffee machines they provide. It still feels wrong to sign in with the receptionist, who knows what he’s here for, who knows there’s really only one reason for an appointment with Doctor Irihata, and it is not because your life is going well.

It’s not that Iwaizumi’s life is going _badly_ , really. Not anymore, anyway, although it was touch and go for a while. He’s not even sure he could describe the past year as _bad -_ just lacking, and soulless, and lonely. But nothing bad had _happened_ \- nothing had happened at all, and that had been part of the problem. A soul-crushing nothing. He hadn’t followed his friends to university, or to the big cities afterwards, and it felt as though he was stuck in the same place he’d lived all his life, the same place he’d always live, the place he’d die.

In high school - Aoba Johsai, he thinks, with a twinge of dark longing - he supposed he’d been happy. He had never thought about it, so he must have been. He split his time between various sports clubs, large, comfortable groups of friends, and arm wrestling contests - of which he had always emerged as the unscathed victor. It had been good, and he’d felt good, and he’d assumed he’d always feel so comfortable.

Of course, in the years since then, life has cheerfully proven wrong over and over again. 

Even as his life had dimmed around him, it took a long time to realise that it wasn’t normal - that everyone didn’t feel like this empty. He’d gone his whole life being a picture-perfect normal boy, but the inescapable fact that had taken far too long to acknowledge was that it wasn’t normal to spend evenings alone, drinking until he passed out, waking up at three in the afternoon to missed calls from his mother, and only his mother.

He’d never planned to feel so lonely, of course, and he'd never expected it. He’d never really planned his twenties at all. When thoughts of his future had drifted into his mind, a nebulous and vague image would appear - a polaroid being shaken into being. Him with faceless, nameless friends, him with money - him with a _wife_ , maybe. But the older he gets, the more blurry that image apears. Now it’s him, alone, and with too much month at the end of the money - and no one ever told him how expensive it is to buy food; why did no one warn him?

The part of his vague fantasies including a wife seems furthest away out of any of it. And when he really thinks about it, late at night, when his thoughts are honest and unencumbered by daylight proprieties, it’s not a wife he sees, not really. But that thought - that inescapable fork in the road -  is something he can’t bring himself to look at properly. It’s the log he doesn’t want to lift - he knows he won’t like what he finds under it.

So his weekly trips to his therapist are not the best day of his week, but it’s necessary, he knows, and Iwaizumi will doggedly continue to do whatever’s _necessary_. It is, after all, what he’s always done - he’s hiked through life at the same steady, stoic pace since he was old enough to make his own decisions. He thinks he might hate that part of himself.

‘Iwaizumi Hajime,’ he says to the receptionist, although it’s not really necessary - she knows him by now.

‘Thank you! Take a seat!’ she says in the bouncy voice he’s only ever heard come out of the receptionists who worked in that office.

As he takes his seat, he realises to his chagrin he’s not the only one in the waiting room. Damnit. So much for sliding in unnoticed. Never mind. He takes a magazine from the table-stack without really taking much notice of what it is, or of the other person in the waiting room. If it was up to him, his visits would be a covert, night-time thing, where no other people have to see him in such a place. No such luck, though. He sighs. Opens the magazine without paying attention. It’s old and crinkled, but it’s better sitting in silence with only his thoughts to keep him company.

A voice distracts him almost immediately. ‘Volleyball Monthly,’ he says.

Iwaizumi glances up - it’s the other patient from across the room, and he’s smiling. He has a charming, lilting voice, but it doesn’t make Iwaizumi feel remotely charmed - merely more harried. Does this man not realise therapy-room etiquette? The lack of acknowledgement of anyone else present? 

He grunts in response without looking up.

‘You like volleyball?’ the stranger continues merrily. ‘You ever play?’

Iwaizumi grits his teeth and looks up, about to snap something gruff. His words die when he sees the man in front of him. He is dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, but despite this, he looks as put-together as it is possible for anyone to look. He has obnoxiously shiny, bouncy hair that looks impossibly soft, as though it's been photoshopped. He is, in essence, the picture of pretty male togetherness, and the very last person that Iwaizumi would have expected to meet in a therapist’s office. Hell, he looks more like the therapist. ‘A little in high school,’ he answers, and his voice comes out hoarser than he expects. Shit. He swallows. He didn’t expect to have to make conversation, that’s all, he tells himself.

The stranger smiles. ‘Me too,’ he says. ‘Maybe we played each other.’

‘I didn’t play in matches,’ Iwaizumi admits, ‘but you might have played my friends. Aoba Johsai.’

The man sits forward and his eyes sparkle. ‘Yes! I did! You had a strong team! Top four in the prefecture, I think. Your captain was Matsukawa. You were good, but you were lacking direction.’ Iwaizumi notices that his knee has started jiggling.

Iwaizumi blinks. For an ‘I think’ to have been thrown in, he seems very certain. ‘Uh, yes, that’s right,’ he says slowly, trying to figure out the right thing to say to someone who has memorised, apparently, every single game he played the best part of a decade ago.

The stranger laughs, and runs a hand through his hair. ‘Great times,’ he says, although the shine in his eyes has lost a little luster, and the knee has gone still. ‘I played for Shiratorizawa back then. Ask your friends if they remember me. Oikawa Tooru.’ He throws Iwaizumi a peace sign and has the gall to wink along with it.

Iwaizumi stares at him, mouth slightly agape. He has no idea what to make of Oikawa Tooru. He finds himself actually wanting to ask his old friends whether they do, in fact, know this pretty weirdo, and what his deal is. ‘I will,’ he tells him, and he’s not even lying. ‘That was a great school, too,' he adds, because he remembers well Aoba Johsai's rivalry with Shiratorizawa. 

Oikawa smiles, eyes downcast. ‘It was,’ he agrees, and seems to drift into thought. 

 

*

 

It takes three days and two nights of determinedly not thinking about Oikawa for Iwaizumi to crack like an egg. It’s almost two in the morning, and his defences are lowered. He types ‘Oikawa Tooru’ into the search bar and presses enter, trying not to think about the moral implications. It’s a lot easier late at night, with the low white-blue glow of his phone in the shadowy room.

And _holy shit_ , the results are _nothing_ like what he expected. Hundreds upon hundreds of results, nearly all of them proclaiming that Oikawa Tooru is the most gifted setter for a generation, that he will lift Japan to glory in the upcoming Olympics, that he is the _most attractive athlete to ever_ \- Iwaizumi quickly closes that tab. His hand is actually shaking a little - he is too stoic and hard to impress to ever get really starstruck, but he feels astonished that a random meeting in a therapist’s office of all places ended up being this, well, _star_. No wonder his clothes looked so expensive, Iwaizumi thinks, taken aback. 

There is a healthy sprinkling of social media profiles, all with the little blue tick that means he’s famous enough to be official. And of course, along with the profiles come the profile pictures, and looking at his face is not doing anything to harden his resolve to not think about him anymore. Iwaizumi is so thrown by his prettiness that for a few minutes he doesn’t even remember to scold himself for the thought. For a moment he just sits there, staring at Oikawa’s Instagram feed, rows and rows of pictures of him in various places, with various people, and in various outfits. Iwaizumi doesn't recognise any of them, but he wonders how many of them are high-level athletes too. Certainly the man next to Oikawa in several photos must be - he's huge, with the kind of hard stare that comes from the pure, unadulterated knowledge that he is safe in himself, and his victories. 

He makes the mistake of reading some of the comments, and immediately realises he’s probably the only man on Oikawa’s profile, as well as the only person over 18.

But - strangely -reading between the lines, his fans seem to be concerned.

 

**Come back soon Oikawa-san!!!!! We miss you!!!!!!!**

 

**I love you please come back!!!!!!!!**

 

**I want to see you in shorts again!!!!!**

 

Iwaizumi frowns - why wouldn’t Oikawa be in shorts? (And where could Iwaizumi see him in shorts - no, _no_ , not that.) He’s a volleyball player: shouldn’t he be in shorts all the time? (He certainly _should_ be in shorts all the time.) He looks at the date that last photo was published and sees it was published over two months previously. He clicks on the previous photo. It was published only a few days before the last one - and that pattern continues; daily or near-daily photo updates, until about two months previously. Then nothing. Nothing on any of his social media accounts since November. 

He clicks around the news articles, too - but there’s nothing recent on him. In fact, the articles seem to stop around the same time as the social media.

It’s time to bring out the big guns. After only a brief inner war, he calls Hanamaki, high-school friend and current Tokyo sports journalist, and one of the only people he knows who can be reliably expected to be up at nearly three in the morning. 

‘Yo, Iwaizumi,’ Hanamaki greets him on the third ring, sounding perfectly awake. ‘What’s up?’

‘Do you remember a guy called Oikawa Tooru?’ Iwaizumi asks, beginning to regret the call already.

Hanamaki seems to pause a little longer than usual before answering. ‘Yeah, I’ve met him a few times. We played him in high school. Shiratorizawa. Won everything, pretty much. Weird and intense. His captain was this, like, absolutely massive guy, who was equally weird and intense. I think that school just breeds them like that. Like horses,’ he says wisely. ‘What about him?’

‘I met him in a doctor’s office and he got all overexcited when I said my friends had probably played him at volleyball,’ Iwaizumi says. ‘He started like, vibrating in his seat. It was weird.’

‘Weird and intense,’ Hanamaki says smugly. ‘Told you.’

‘Well I didn’t argue,’ Iwaizumi mutters.

‘Anyway, he’s probably got weirder since getting injured,’ Hanamaki continues, ignoring his comment. ‘No outlet for that personality.’

‘Injured?’ Iwaizumi asks, frowning. An injury for a professional athlete is never a good thing. Especially weird and intense ones, he supposes.

‘Injured somehow,’ Hanamaki agrees blithely. ‘Don’t know any more than that. His team’s been pretty good at covering it up. Don’t want to lose the ticket sales from their pretty setter, I guess.’ He sounds a little sly when he says ‘pretty setter’, but Iwaizumi feels it’s probably warranted: calling out of the blue asking about a _volleyball player_ is not something he’s ever done before. _He_ isn’t sure what his cards say, yet, but he feels as though somehow Hanamaki does. He’s a journalist, after all, Iwaizumi thinks darkly, and they know everything.

‘Well, thanks,’ Iwaizumi says, stiffly, after another pause.

‘Hey! Iwaizumi! Please be his friend - get me all the exclusives - I’ll introduce you to these cheerleaders I know -’

‘Holy shit, thanks, _goodbye_ ,’ Iwaizumi says quickly, and ends the call. 

*

When Iwaizumi returns the following week, he’s privately ashamed of the somersault his stomach performs when he sees the flop of brown hair sitting in _his_ usual seat. He makes sure to keep his visage on the gruff side of neutral as Oikawa looks up at the sound of the door. His face immediately brightens at the sight of Iwaizumi, and it feels terribly potent. 

‘It’s you again,’ he says, sounding genuinely delighted. Iwaizumi can't understand it. How is it possible for one man - one man in _therapy_ \- to be so _peppy_? Iwaizumi, who personally lacks a single ounce of pep, has historically found such people to be exhausting, but for once, he doesn't think he hates it at all. He thinks he might like it.

‘And it’s you,’ Iwaizumi responds carefully, keeping his tone as neutral as he can, along with his face. 

'Guilty,' Oikawa says. 

‘I looked you up,’ Iwaizumi says, and it sounds more threatening than he’d meant it to. Is it his imagination, or does Oikawa’s face shutter a little? Do his eyes slide a little to the left? ‘And I spoke to my volleyball friend. He played you in high school. He said you were _weird and intense_.’ He points an accusing finger.

Oikawa’s already over-sized brown eyes open even wider and his pink mouth opens. ‘Intense and weird?’ he says, sounding, if anything, even more delighted. ‘Well _excuse me_ for taking the game seriously. He’s only saying that because he's bitter we beat Aoba Johsai every single time we played them.’ God, he even remembers Iwaizumi's school. He grins at Iwaizumi and leans back in his chair smugly. It looks like a challenge, and lands on Iwaizumi like one too. 

‘And you didn’t say you play for _Japan_ ,’ Iwaizumi says, narrowing his eyes.

‘Can’t blame a humble man for wanting to maintain an air of mystery,’ Oikawa says loftily. ‘Speaking of mystery - what’s your name? You know everything about me, apparently. I don’t even know your name.’

‘Iwaizumi Hajime,’ Iwaizumi says.

‘Hmmm,’ Oikawa says, fixing his pretty gaze on him, and Iwaizumi suddenly has the uncanny feeling that he’s being scanned at the airport. ‘Nice to meet you, Iwaizumi-san.’

Iwaizumi narrows his eyes further. ‘You _are_ weird and intense,’ he proclaims darkly, but flops down into the next seat, arms folded and ears warm.  
  
He doesn’t expect for Oikawa to burst into peals of laughter. And - God - he really doesn’t expect for that laughter to make him feel indefinably itchy. ‘Oh my god, Iwa-chan, that’s why I’m _here_!’ he says, throwing his arms wide open, as though trying to embrace the whole world at once, and Iwaizumi feels his traitorous heart swell like a balloon, and he joins him in laughter. The room feels okay, that day. 


	2. Chapter 2

A few appointments later, and Iwaizumi is trying desperately to suppress the swell of anxious glee every time he opens the door of the office. He knows it‘s trouble - he can already feel his little malnourished heart beginning to turn hopefully towards the sun. It’s simultaneously revelatory and terrifying, considering how little actually knows about Oikawa.

There are three things he knows for certain:

  1. He’s in therapy;
  2. He’s a volleyball nut;
  3. He’s very _strange_.



The whole thing is strange, really: Oikawa comes across as a natural and habitual over-sharer - non-stop chatting and pearly teeth, but he never really shares anything _personal_. Iwaizumi’s inexpert attempts at subtle interrogations are easily batted away with a conversational sleight of hand that Iwaizumi would find politician-impressive if he didn’t actually want to hear real answers. Oikawa is as difficult to pin down as smoke, and like smoke he seems ephemeral - as though when the wind changes he'll go with it. Of course that's not true, but sometimes feels as though his mannerisms and behaviours have been laid like ill-fitting tarp over some kind of alien being. So yes. He's strange.

It's only been a month since their first meeting, but it’s no good denying the truth. He knows what it is: he has a _thing_ for Oikawa, and that’s that. No point getting emotional about it. It doesn't have to mean anything. 

Oikawa has started hanging around until after Iwaizumi’s appointment, and walking him to the train station, chatting amiably, as Iwaizumi makes occasional comments and grunts, if he can get a word in. He still performs verbal gymnastics around anything important, but even so, Iwaizumi can’t help but feel a little lighter on his feet whenever Oikawa’s voice is bouncing around his head. God help him, but Wednesdays have gone from being his least favourite day of the week to the day he bases his week around. In a secret cul-de-sac at the back of his his mind, he knows that he’s headed for a fall, but while he’s flying so high, he can’t bear to think about it. It’s been a long time since he’s felt so awake. The world feels benevolent again.

They’ve switched numbers, too. Oikawa texts him multiple times daily - at _strange_ times - there’ve been time stamps from every hour possible. He doesn’t seem to sleep. The content is always frothy and shallow, but the fact that Oikawa is texting him at all still makes Iwaizumi's days glow. And if it was anyone else, he would be convinced that the constant texts _do_ count as some sort of courtship attempt, but because he knows Oikawa, and spends most of his time thinking about Oikawa, he can't be certain. Oikawa is touchy- he flirts with everyone. He's seen the way the receptionist looks at him, and how Oikawa smiles back. It's that lack of certainty that makes him feel itchy and too hot. 

 **_I saw a big dog on the way home!!!!!_ ** (❍ᴥ❍ʋ)

**what is that thing  
**

**_Rude!! It’s obviously a dog!! Can't you read  :(_**

They have yet to see each other outside of the waiting room, and Iwaizumi has decided not to think about that - or, even worse, to consider what it _means_. But one Friday, while he's eating a microwave dinner alone, he receives another text from the bane of his life.

**_Do you want to do something tomorrow??_  
**

**like what  
**

**Let’s get pancakes!!! :)**

Iwaizumi hesitates before responding. Is that a normal guy thing? Getting pancakes together - just the two of you? He isn’t sure what Oikawa’s offering, and wants to be on solid ground before responding. 

But that seems unlikely, where Oikawa’s concerned. So he responds anyway.

**ok where  
**

**Meet me at 38mitsubachi at 12!! <3 :)  
**

**ok**

Iwaizumi puts his phone down, trying to move slowly and calmly in order to avoid feeling that rush of light in his chest again. It doesn’t work.

*

Pancake morning dawns frosty and cold, and the sun is bright and weak, gently illuminating the empty beer bottles and ramen packets that have accumulated over several weeks. Well. Months, if he's honest. He doesn’t think Oikawa will come back to his apartment, but even the potentiality of that outcome is potent enough to make him shove them all into a trash bag, which he hides under the sofa.

He’s not changing _that_ much for Oikawa.

Before he leaves, Iwaizumi stares into the only mirror he owns, feeling mildly fatalistic. He’s had the same haircut since he was three; there’s nothing he can do there. He’s worn more or less the same clothes since he was three, as well - albeit with fewer public viewings of his Godzilla t-shirts. It is what it is, he tells himself firmly. It’s fine. He knows what you look like. What is _happening_ to him? He can’t remember ever feeling so out of his depth. He squishes his hands on his cheeks and tries to get a grip. _I am 25 years old_ , he thinks desperately.

Despite the nerves, he does leave his apartment with a new spring in his step, even if there’s no spring in the air.

When he arrives at the pancake cafe, Oikawa is already there, standing under a red umbrella and playing with his phone. Iwaizumi thinks, anguishedly, and not for the first time, how he is the exact ideal male specimen. Even in the freezing February sun he looks perfectly composed. Even with a bright red nose.   

He looks up as Iwaizumi approaches, and his cold-whipped face is immediately brighter than a lantern. ‘Iwa-chan!’ he says happily, and bounces over.

‘Iwa-chan,’ Iwaizumi sighs to himself, with only mild sufferance.

‘Iwa-chan!’ Oikawa repeats, firmly. ‘It shows my affection for you, obviously. It’s a _compliment.’_

Iwaizumi opens his mouth and closes it a few times. Shut up,’ he mutters, but he knows he’s smiling, and Oikawa is smirking back at him. ‘And go inside, idiot,’ he says, still refusing to look in Oikawa’s direction, but still able to see Oikawa’s sideways smile from the corner of his eye. Shit. This actually is a date, he realises, in a rush of anxiety-tinged glee. 

Inside the little cafe, Oikawa makes a beeline for the front desk. There’s a pretty little blonde girl working there, and she waves at Oikawa immediately.

‘Oikawa-san!’ she says, and leans over the counter. ‘The usual?’

‘Please, Yachi-san,’ Oikawa says, unfailingly courteous, with a small bow. ‘But my friend here will need something too.’ He indicates Iw

Iwaizumi wonders whether Oikawa knows every single person in Sendai - or just the pretty women. He clears his throat. ‘Um, what’s the plainest thing you have?’ He hears Oikawa snigger next to him and resists the urge to give him the finger. They're in public. 

‘We have buttermilk pancakes,’ Yachi tells him, ‘with just butter and syrup?’

It still sounds like more sugar than Iwaizumi eats in a week, but what the hell. ‘Yes, please,’ he says, and gets out his wallet.

Oikawa spots this with frightening, hawkish speed, and says sweetly, ‘Don’t be an idiot, Iwa-chan,' shooing his wallet back into his pocket with threatening hand motions. Iwaizumi isn’t going to complain about free pancakes, even though he feels hot under his jacket at the gesture. Definitely a date

‘Wonderful!’ Yachi says, gaze flicking between the two of them. ‘I’ll bring them over to you!’

He and Oikawa thank her again and Oikawa leads them both to a small corner table.

‘I can’t believe you have a usual pancake order,’ Iwaizumi mumbles, once they’ve both sat down. ‘How old are you?’

‘Old enough to eat whatever I want,’ Oikawa informs him, with a very serious expression. ‘Pancakes are a staple food for any athlete.’

There’s that word again: _athlete_. Ever since the conversation with Hanamaki, he’s been dying to ask Oikawa about this supposed injury. He’s caught himself studying Oikawa’s movements on several occasions. But it’s been in vain: Oikawa always moves with a graceful fluidity unattainable for most mortals. There’s been no sign of a catch in his step, a limp, or even a bandag. He wonders if Hanamaki had been mistaken, but in the ten years they’ve known each other, he’s rarely been wrong about determining the truth from simple gossip. It’s a talent Iwaizumi both respects and fears.

He’s about to open his mouth to ask about the ghost injury when their pancakes arrive, and he is momentarily struck dumb with horror at the monstrous creation on Oikawa’s plate. It’s at least five pancakes deep, covered in a red, sticky sauce, and dripping with ice cream. Oikawa claps his hands gleefully when it’s put in front of him. He looks as though all his birthdays have come at once, and Iwaizumi feels another hopeless stab of fondness. What a loser, he thinks indulgently. 

‘Man, these are good,’ Iwaizumi admits, upon trying his own pancake. Definitely worth missing the gym for.

Oikawa has a mouth too full to respond, but he nods enthusiastically. ‘The best,’ he manages, when his mouth is mostly empty. ‘I come here every week.’

‘On your own?’ Iwaizumi asks, as though he doesn't spend most of his life alone too.

Oikawa pouts at him. ‘Nothing wrong with enjoying your own company, Iwa-chan,’ he says reproachfully.

‘Just seems like you know everyone,’ Iwaizumi says darkly.

Oikawa tilts his head. ‘Oh, Yachi? She’s just someone from the high school volleyball circuit.’ He looks a little flat, suddenly.

It’s impossible to miss how Oikawa’s usual cheer becomes more unstable whenever the subject of volleyball makes an appearance. Iwaizumi has to understand why - he thinks without doing so, he won’t be able to understand Oikawa at all. ‘What’s up with that face?’ he asks bluntly.

Oikawa jerks out of his reverie. ‘What?’

‘What’s up with the sad face?’ Iwaizumi asks again.

Oikawa sighs, so deep it could have come directly from a well. ‘What face,’ he says, dredging up a badly-painted smile, but fiddling with his sleeve and gazing down at his pancakes.

‘My friend heard you got injured,’ Iwaizumi says, tentatively.

Oikawa lifts his head up in a flash, looking so shocked that Iwaizumi feels guilty. ‘Where did he hear that!’

‘He’s a sports journalist,’ Iwaizumi says quickly, hands up in pacification. ‘He always knows stuff.’

Oikawa doesn’t respond verbally, but suddenly resembles a prey animal. His eyes are huge, his skin is blotchy, and there’s a faint quiver to his hands that makes his fork shake slightly as he stabs at the pancakes, turning them into a gory mess.

‘Hey,’ Iwaizumi says quickly. ‘Don’t-’ He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, but he knows  in a jerk of certainty from right down in his bones that no matter how weird and intense Oikawa is -and it's beginning to look like _very_ \- he wants to be there to stop his face from looking like that anymore. He wants nothing more than to slide his hand across the table and put it on top of Oikawa’s slim fingers, which are now trembling like leaves clinging to frozen branches.

He’s not quite that brave, but he does reach over and pull at Oikawa’s abused sleeve, briefly daring to curl his fingers around his thin-skinned wrist as he does so. ‘It’s okay,’ he says gruffly, even though Oikawa appears anything but. He's very pale - grey around the edges, with a tightness in his face that Iwaizumi doesn't recognise.

But the gentle physical contact pulls Oikawa back from wherever he’d fallen, a little, and he jerks slightly. He runs his fingers through his hair with a still-trembling hand, but his eyes look less clouded. More present. ‘Ah,’ he breathes out with a shaky laugh, and roughly scrabbles at his hair again. ‘Sorry, Iwa-chan, what must you think of me? It's not usually-’

It’s nothing,’ Iwaizumi says shortly. ‘Just - you can talk. If you want to.’

Oikawa snorts, apparently taking sustenance from Iwaizumi's discomfort. ‘Iwa-chan, you’re so emotionally stunted that if you had to listen to me talk about my feelings you’d probably die of shock, and then I’d have even more feelings, and no one would be there to deal with them.’

Iwaizumi leans forward and gently flicks Oikawa’s still clammy forehead. ‘I can deal with your feelings,’ he insists, hoping it’s true. He doesn't deny the emotionally stunted accusation. He _knows_ that's true. ‘And if you kill me with them I’ll haunt you forever and you can tell me more of them. In ghost form.’

Oikawa is quiet for a moment, but he looks thoughtful rather than miserable. ‘I get - a bit obsessive,’ he says finally, almost apologetic, his hands gesturing nervously.

Yep. Iwaizumi believes it entirely, and immediately. 

Oikawa pokes him. ‘Don’t make that face, Iwa-chan! It’s normal.’

Iwaizumi makes another face. Normal is one thing; healthy is another. It’s a lesson he’s trying to learn himself. ‘What happened?’ he says instead, because Oikawa's obsessive behaviour is not really the explanation he was hoping for. 

Oikawa shakes his head and raises his hands. ‘It’s not a fun story, Iwa-chan, and I don’t like telling it, because I, myself, am so much fun.’

Iwaizumi fixes him with an unimpressed scowl and crosses his arms.

Oikawa rolls his eyes. ‘Fine. New guy started training with us,’ he says. ‘He wasn’t trained properly yet but he could still do things I can’t - couldn’t. Had a real genius for the game.' He looks as though he's back on shaky ground. He's wringing his hands together. ‘I didn’t want to lose my place on the team. So I worked too hard, and lost my place on the team.’ He laughs and gives an exaggerated shrug with his slim shoulders. ‘I guess it’s like that sometimes, huh, Iwa-chan?’

‘ _You lost your place on the team_?’ Iwaizumi asks, horrified.

‘I ruined my knee,’ Oikawa says baldly.

‘How ruined?’

‘Oh, you know, ruined. It’s done, I’m totally done,’ Oikawa laughs, glib and a little hysterical. ‘It doesn’t hurt much if I walk on it, but anything involving sudden direction changes, pivoting, that kind of thing. Any more volleyball and I’ll be arthritic in the next ten years. So that’s that. He wins anyway.’

Iwaizumi stares at him, Oikawa’s mouth is set in a determined line and his eyes burn into Iwaizumi’s, as though daring him to even try saying something comforting.

‘Jesus, Oikawa,’ is what he says instead, still staring, still appalled.

‘Yeah,’ Oikawa says quietly, his expression melting from defiance into ruefulness. ‘But it’s okay. It’s not all bad. I like these pancakes, and soon it’ll be spring, and then it’ll be summer, and that’s nice.’ Oikawa's voice is so colourless describing his life's positives that it sounds like nothing more meaningful than a shopping list that someone else wrote.

He eyes the pancake mulch left on Oikawa’s plate that he’s poking and staring into. ‘Let’s go,’ he says spontaneously. ‘Katsuyama park. You need air.’

Oikawa raises one eyebrow. Iwaizumi has never been able to do that. ‘Okay,’ he says. Iwaizumi  had expected some resistance, or at least one of Oikawa’s quips, but looking more closely at him, he still has an unpleasant grey tinge to his face, and Iwaizumi thinks that he really _does_ need to get some air that smells like plants rather than pancakes.

As Oikawa stands, he looks a little unsteady on his feet. ‘It’s okay,’ Iwaizumi says again, more gently. He wishes again that he could just take Oikawa’s hand; steady him a bit.

‘I’m fine,’ Oikawa snaps, but there’s a crack in his voice that wrings out Iwaizumi’s heart. Fuck this, he thinks. He holds out his hand. Oikawa takes it. It’s clammy, but solid, and Oikawa takes a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ he says, sounding clearer.

He lets go of Oikawa’s hand when they get outside, but Oikawa looks calmer, and that’s all Iwaizumi wants. The walk to the park is quiet, with occasional glances at each other that they both pretend not to notice. Oikawa is steady and elegant on his feet again.

Once in the park, Iwaizumi manoeuvres Oikawa into a secluded bench, and forces him to sit on it, despite Oikawa’s growing protests. He might still have the body of the volleyball player, but Iwaizumi has the body of someone who spends an inhuman amount of time in the gym. The squawking and struggling, as far as Iwaizumi is concerned, is a good sign - he’s reviving, getting his irritating self back. Once he’s decided Oikawa is satisfactorily positioned, he flops down next to him. Oikawa glowers at him, and Iwaizumi grins back.

‘What happened back there?’ Iwaizumi asks, for his own peace of mind as much as anything.

Oikawa shrugs and his mouth turns down. ‘I said it wasn’t a fun story,’ he says sulkily, but the fact Oikawa can’t meet his eyes anymore makes Iwaizumi wonder what the hell he’s missing out. Iwaizumi feels as though he’s seen something he wasn’t invited to. He sighs. Oikawa is a riddle wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in 6 feet of neuroses and good hair. It should be exhausting, he thinks, but he’s not exhausted; he feels endlessly awake, unwilling to let Oikawa leave in case he has another episode. Or something. He finishes that thought a little skittishly, not quite wanting to let his imagination have free reign.

‘Hey, Iwa-chan,’ Oikawa says suddenly, into the silence. ‘You know that this was a date, right?’

Iwaizumi scratches his head nervously. ‘I - uh, do now,’ he says, and can’t help laughing nervously. ‘I hoped,’ he admits, quieter, ducking his head awkwardly.

Oikawa’s smile is back, and it looks authentic. ‘You held my hand,’ he says, sing-song.

Iwaizumi leaps off the bench. ‘Shittykawa! Only because you looked like you were going to die!’

‘I still might,’ Oikawa says, very seriously. He closes his eyes and sticks his tongue out.

Christ. This asshole. He takes the hint - and Oikawa's hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the pancake cafe is a real place, as is the park
> 
> a few boring notes:
> 
> w/o iwaizumi's influence throughout his life I think there's a good chance oikawa would be pretty unstable - that's essentially what this fic is trying to explore. iwa-chan is still fairly stable, honestly - therapy doesn't always mean you aren't. mental illness / distress / whatever you want to call either of their baggage can manifest in really different ways which is another thing i hope comes through in this - iwa isolates himself, while oikawa makes a load of really shallow connections with people he never shares himself with
> 
> i also do think that they would be (slightly) more mature in their interactions in their 20s, b/c at 18 you are still developing, esp in the high school fish bowl. i did consider writing them in a tone closer to the show/manga but felt it would just be inaccurate to how real people's personalities develop SO that's that!
> 
> i will try and get this finished in the next few days - it's mostly done really!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is kind of intense - be mindful if you don't feel like reading things about oikawa being sad and crazy

Oikawa drops off the radar after they go their separate ways.

Iwaizumi takes it in his stride, at first: Oikawa freaked out, and he’s embarrassed. It’s okay, he thinks: he’s not in a rush. He can wait for however long Oikawa needs to lick his wounds. But by Tuesday evening, when Oikawa is apparently still licking the damn things, Iwaizumi loses patience, and decides that Oikawa is an idiot who can’t trusted to make sensible decisions.

So he does something he hadn’t expected to do: he calls him.

Oikawa picks up on the fourth ring, sounding airy and normal. Normal for the barrel of crazy that is Oikawa, anyway. ‘Iwa-chan!’

‘What’s with the disappearing act?’ Iwaizumi demands immediately, greetings be damned.

‘So forward!’ Oikawa gasps in mock horror. He pauses, and when he next speaks he sounds more honest. ‘I wasn’t hiding. I just wasn’t sure if you - still wanted to see me.’

‘So you _were_ hiding,’ Iwaizumi says darkly. 'Stupid.'

Oikawa’s laughter - slightly shy-sounding - burbles across the line. ‘Doing you a favour,’ he says, like the idiot he is.

‘I don’t need you to do me any favours,’ Iwaizumi says shortly. ‘Dumbass.’

‘Iwa-chan is so gallant.’

‘I’m gonna gallantly kick your ass next time I see you.’

Oikawa laughs again. Iwaizumi wants to hear that sound as often as possible. ‘Come and kick it now,’ he says. ‘I’m _bored_. Entertain me.’

‘Now who’s being forward?’ Iwaizumi says, grinning, despite the fact his neck feels sweaty and hot, now. 

‘Not me, because you’re now banned from my house,’ Oikawa declares. ‘It’s the only way you’ll learn.’

‘Guess I’ll have to find someone else’s ass to kick,’ Iwaizumi sighs theatrically.

Oikawa tuts and hangs up. But he sends Iwaizumi his address anyway.

To his surprise and pleasure, Oikawa only lives a ten minute walk from his own apartment. It’s a decent part of town - not expensive, but not run-down either. He can’t help feeling that Oikawa should live somewhere nicer, even so - somewhere with a garden, maybe, not just an concrete ocean of greys. The sudden thought of Oikawa tending to his own little garden, dirty and sunburned, is an image he isn't expecting to like so much, but then, he wasn't expecting to like Oikawa so much either. 

When he rings the bell, Oikawa answers the door immediately, as though he was pacing in front of it. He looks like a rain forecast.

‘You came,’ he says, having the gall to look taken aback. 'I didn't think you would.' 

‘You told me to,’ Iwaizumi points out peevishly, trying not to consider what it says about him that he did what Oikawa asked him to without even considering saying no. He knows what it means.  

Oikawa wordlessly steps aside, with a facetiously low bow.

Once he's inside, Oikawa’s apartment isn’t what he was expecting. He can only see the hallway from the door, but even that looks as though it's been abandoned for years. It's littered with boxes marked with things like ‘IMPORTANT’ and ‘BATHROOM’ and ‘ALIENS’ in neat handwriting. There's a worryingly tall stack of unopened mail piled next to the door. Iwaizumi is surprised: he had assumed that Oikawa’s perfect appearance would translate to the rest of his life, but evidently not. Oikawa watches him survey the scene in front of him, expression carefully neutral.

‘You only just moved in?’ he asks.

‘Hmm,’ Oikawa says evasively.

‘Planning on unpacking any time soon?’ Iwaizumi asks, only half-joking.

Oikawa grimaces. ‘I didn’t think I’d be here this long,’ he admits quietly, shrugging, and looking up at Iwaizumi with a _what can you do?_ expression.

Ah.

‘Where were you before?’ Iwaizumi asks.

‘Tokyo,’ Oikawa says, smiling bleakly. ‘I mean - I grew up here, and my parents wanted me close, after -  but…’ He trails off, shrugging, but Iwaizumi can understand: Tokyo is Oikawa’s home, now; he can’t unpack because then he’d be accepting that it isn’t anymore. It’s a miserable image: Oikawa, alone with his failing body in this lonely, unfurnished flat, pining for his life back in Tokyo. It makes Iwaizumi want scream with the unfairness of it all. 

‘I’m sorry about your knee,’ Iwaizumi says suddenly - for the first time, he thinks. The verbiage is so painfully inadequate as an attempt to explain how sorry he really is that he feels a little embarrassed at saying it at all - but it’s honest. He _is_ sorry, and sorry is all he can be, isn't it? He can't fix the damn thing. Neither of them can do anything about it, not really.  

Oikawa shoots him a skittish glance and a flight-risk mouth twitch, and is quiet for a moment. ‘Thank you,’ is all he says in the end. They both lapse into silence, standing close in the tiny corridor, surrounded by boxes and plastic wrap.

‘Let’s unpack,’ Iwaizumi says, on a whim. ‘Come on. It’s crazy not to.’

‘Don’t want to,’ Oikawa says, folding his arms and pouting like the child he is.

‘But I do, and I’m the guest,’ Iwaizumi says. Oikawa glares at him. ‘Look - what even are these?’ He lifts a huge bundle of thick envelopes up from on top of a box marked ‘MATCH DVDs’. ‘Are these cards?’

‘Get well soon ones,’ Oikawa says sulkily. ‘You can throw them out.’

Iwaizumi can’t bring himself to throw out an entire stack of letters from well-meaning friends and family, but he does put them down again. He’s not working entirely blind - he doesn’t know all of Oikawa’s limits yet, but he instinctively understands that anything injury-related is something Oikawa refuses to unpack, both literally and figuratively. Maybe it's a refusal, or maybe it's an inability to cope with it yet, but it doesn't matter: either way, it's not getting done. 

‘And these?’ He holds up another stack of envelopes with an official-looking logo on it. He’s not expecting Oikawa to launch himself at them and snatch them out of his hand.

‘Medical stuff,’ he snaps, not meeting Iwaizumi’s eyes and chewing on his lip. 

Iwaizumi sighs. ‘I know this sucks -’ he begins.

‘No,’ Oikawa says shortly. ‘You don’t. You have no idea.’ He stands up. His eyes are flickering back and forth from the boxes, to the medical letters, to the well-wisher cards. He's not the rain forecast, anymore, he's a hurricane warning. Iwaizumi swallows. This is new - he’s never seen Oikawa angry.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. ‘You’re right. I don’t. Tell me.' 

Oikawa starts pacing like a caged animal. He takes a huge gulp of air. ‘It's not just the knee,’ he says loudly. ‘It's the stuff after the knee.’

‘The - what? After?’

Oikawa makes an anguished noise. ‘I can’t tell you. You’ll hate me.’

‘I won’t,’ Iwaizumi says, knowing whole-heartedly - whole bodiedly, whole mindly - that it's true. ‘Oikawa-’

Oikawa has his head in his hands and is shaking it violently while he paces the width of the tiny hallway. ‘You don’t get it - Iwa-chan, you don’t get it - yeah, okay, I’m gonna have to tell you now, but you’re going to hate me.’

Iwaizumi’s mouth is dry. ‘I promise I won’t hate you,’ he repeats. God damn it, again he is filled with a  _loathing_ of his own linguistic inadequacies; why can’t he say something to fix it? What is the right combination of letters, of words, of touches, to solve the problem? The thought that there might not _be_ a correct combination is such a terrifying thought that Iwaizumi can't bring himself to believe it. But what he said is true: he can’t think of anything at that moment, anything at all, that would make him hate Oikawa.

‘Okay,’ Oikawa says, more to himself than Iwaizumi. ‘Okay, okay. After the - knee thing -’ He swallows. ‘I didn’t deal with it like they wanted me to. I went a bit - you know. And in the end they made me spend two weeks on the _psych ward_ because they thought I was going to - do something,’ Oikawa finishes jerkily, and laughs high-pitched and hysterical. His hands come up to grab at his hair and when he looks at Iwaizumi, the whites of his eyes are visible. One of his shaking hands moves down to cover his mouth, as though to try and stop any other secrets from escaping without his consent.

Shit, Iwaizumi thinks, blank.

That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the big reveal and it’s been there the whole time. The real reason for all the things Iwaizumi hasn’t been able to piece together - that Oikawa hasn’t _let_ him put together. It’s not _just_ the knee injury. It’s _never_ just been the knee injury. It’s the basement that the injury forced him into - it’s the drudgery, the meaningless scutwork of staying alive without purpose, without passion. He’d got it all wrong. Oikawa had pointed him towards the knee, but Iwaizumi should have seen past the smoke screen - he should have _realised,_ he knew there was something -

‘I don’t hate you,’ he says quickly, desperate, because it’s all he can think of to say. ‘I - I swear-’

But wherever Oikawa is now, it’s nowhere he can hear Iwaizumi. He slides down the wall, his head in his hands, shoulders shaking.

Iwaizumi is there without realising he’s moved. He forces an arm around Oikawa’s heaving shoulders and just holds him. He’s shaking too, he realises suddenly - it’s an eggshell second; one wrong word, or movement, and he’s going to crush it irreparably.

He walks on his knees in front of Oikawa, who still has his head in his hands, and shakes him. ‘Listen,’ he says roughly, not knowing if it’s going to get through but needing to say it anyway, ‘you’re right, I have no idea what’s going on in your head, but I don’t hate you -’ oh fuck, he’s going to say it - ‘I don't hate you at _all_ , I think I  _love_ you, I’m sorry, I know it’s fucked up to say it right now, if that’s the wrong thing you can ignore but -’

Oikawa makes a pitchy moaning sound high in his throat. ‘Oh my God,’ Oikawa says, still sobbing, but bringing up a hand to pull at Iwaizumi’s shirt, ‘you can’t be like ‘I love you’ and ‘sorry if that’s the wrong thing to say’ in the same sentence, you-’

Iwaizumi starts laughing hysterically, because the situation is alreadyhorrible, and inexplicable, and there's freedom in knowing there's nothing he can do that can make it any worse. ‘Oh my God,’ he wheezes, crawling back to lean against the wall next to Oikawa. ‘I’m sorry - just - how fucking stupid that this is the big moment, when we’re both on the floor and you’re having a nervous breakdown, and I’m just like, “shit, maybe he's going to jump out of the window, better tell him I love him even though I’ve only known him for like six weeks”-’

Oikawa leans his head back against the wall, not bothering to hide the tears anymore. ‘Oh my God, I’m not going to _jump out of the window_ ,’ he sobs, but hiccoughs of laughter are mixing in with the tears now. ‘You’re the _worst.'_  but he’s shaking with laughter alongside the tears, and leans his head on Iwaizumi’s shoulder.  Iwaizumi slings his arm around Oikawa's shoulder again. The wetness soaks through his shirt as they sit there in the lonely hallway. It's baptismal. He lets Oikawa cry himself into quiet, slow, occasionally-hitching breaths. It feels timeless: the two of them, cocooned in the apartment, wrapped in the same plastic as the rest of Oikawa's life. 

When Oikawa is finally breathing more normally, Iwaizumi reaches out for his clammy hand, stroking the knuckles. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen,’ he says. Oikawa peeps up at him, eyes narrowed, but not arguing. ‘I’m going to put you to bed, and you’re going to sleep for a while, and _I’m_ going to unpack.’

Oikawa mutters something into his shoulder that sounds suspiciously like ‘You’re not my real mom’, but Iwaizumi charitably lets it slide, because Oikawa still has tear-tracks all over his cheeks and it wouldn't be sporting to punch him right now. He stands up and holds his hands out. Oikawa has evidently decided that the best way to deal with Iwaizumi at the moment is just to go along with it, because he lets Iwaizumi pull him up to stand next to him. He’s exhaustion in human form - cried out and empty, a dried-up flowerbed.

Iwaizumi scratches his head. ‘I - uh, don’t actually know where your bedroom is.’

Oikawa looks at him from underneath his long dark lashes, and there’s definitely something there, underneath the exhaustion. ‘First door on the left,’ he says. Iwaizumi can hear something under the scratchiness, too, but it's not the time to think about it. Later. 

They walk to the door together, hand in hand, and Iwaizumi hesitates at the threshold. Oikawa rolls his eyes. ‘You can come inside, Iwa-chan. It’s fine.’

Iwaizumi turns his back as Oikawa strips and climbs into his futon. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Oikawa’s body, but he doesn’t want him to feel any more vulnerable tonight. The first time he sees Oikawa naked, he wants Oikawa to want it too - for the only thought in Oikawa’s mind to be the two of them, together, for all the white noise in his head to be silenced. To be fully engrossed in his present - to love it - not to be tied up in ribbons from years ago. 

Oikawa looks much younger in bed - smaller, too, underneath the thick blankets. Iwaizumi perches on the edge of the futon and leans over to kiss him gentle and slow. It might not be the most photo-ready moment for their first kiss, but it feels natural and right to do it now - to try and non-verbally solidify the promises he made a few minutes previously. It’s not the best kiss - Oikawa’s face is still damp, for one - but he isn’t trying to prove his prowess. Yet, anyway. Later, he thinks, again, trying to swat away less wholesome thoughts with that one word. Later. 

When he pulls back, Oikawa’s eyes are closed and his mouth is slightly open. ‘Mm,’ he breathes. ‘Okay.’

‘Okay!’ Iwaizumi says, clapping his hands together, blushing furiously, and feeling a lot less zen about the whole thing. ‘Go to sleep. I’ll be here.’

‘Mm,’ Oikawa says again, more drowsily, and closes his eyes - finally.

Iwaizumi thinks he might actually be asleep before he leaves the room. He watches from the door for a moment, heart squeezing inside him, before closing it, and stealing out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we made it guys _sweatdrop_ this was going to be the last chapter but it just got too long, so i split it in two. the final one is uh, pretty nsfw :| but MUCH less of a bummer lol. you could say it's a _happy ending_... (i'll go. i'm sorry.) (no but really: happy ending, for real) it should be up tomorrow/the next day: it's p much finished
> 
> i am considering writing this from oik's POV, but i think that's probably a terrible idea and would be even more of a bummer, i'm sure
> 
> also, you know ushijima's 'card' would be like, written on formal lined paper and just say like
> 
> Oikawa-san,
> 
> It is unfortunate about your knee.
> 
> Ushijima-san.
> 
> and he'd include a business card :(


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one is nsfw! but happier!

He decides to start the long process in Oikawa’s kitchen, which seems to be the most functional room. It makes sense - Iwaizumi supposes that even Oikawa needs to eat sometimes. He opens the curtains with a flourish. It doesn’t quite have the illuminating effect he was hoping for - or rather, does, but it illuminates all the dust Oikawa hasn’t cleaned, and all the boxes he hasn't unpacked. 

Iwaizumi hadn’t expected to feel the intimacy that washes over him as he rips open box after box. Every box lets him quantify Oikawa's life through all its _stuff -_ some of which is trivial, maybe, but no less a part of him than all his medals, his trophies. In a box marked ‘KITAGAWA DAIICHI  <3’ he finds a certificate from over ten years ago, proclaiming Oikawa the best junior setter in Miyagi. It’s clearly something Oikawa has treasured since its reception, still in its plastic envelope, and so spotless that it could have been printed yesterday. Staring down at the certificate, Iwaizumi feels a flash of sadness for the fall of his sleeping Icarus, mixed with pride for the tiny boy who must have worked so damn  _hard_. 

The box marked ‘SHIRATORIZAWA <3!!!!’ contains a high school uniform, a volleyball signed with names he doesn’t recognise, and a Shiratorizawa yearbook. Is it wrong to want to know what Oikawa looked like at eighteen years old? He can’t resist, regardless of the morality, and looks him up.

He has almost exactly the same hair - obnoxiously perfect and kitten-soft, and Iwaizumi wonders for the thousandth time how many hearts Oikawa has left in his wake by dint of that hair alone. He is rounder-cheeked and softer-jawed, but the smile is the same: huge and blinding and beautiful. It’s only a photo - nearly ten years old, too - but there’s a hint of steel in his face that Iwaizumi thinks must have been knocked out of him, because he doesn't recognise it. It’s the same on the page for the volleyball club: he stands tall and proud - _happy_ , Iwaizumi thinks. It's a boy whose dream was ready and waiting for him, about to pluck it as easily as a peach from a tree. He had no idea. 

He recognises a face in the team photo from a few of Oikawa’s Instagram photos - the intense, serious-looking man a little taller than Oikawa. His name, apparently, is Ushijima Wakatoshi. Even as a teenager he looks about thirty years old - absolutely unassailable; a mountain of young muscle and almost-realised potential. Iwaizumi hopes that this guy had managed to at least curb some of Oikawa’s nonsense - even if by sheer physical mass alone. 

It takes so long to sort Oikawa’s accumulated ephemera into various piles that it’s dark without him noticing the sunset. He’s so engrossed in it that he doesn’t notice the gentle pad of feet behind him until Oikawa bends down to puts his finger in his ear.

Iwaizumi doesn’t scream, but it’s a close thing. ‘Oikawa - asshole, help or go back to sleep.’

‘Iwa-chan,’ Oikawa greets him sunnily, cheerfully ignoring his less-than-romantic welcome, and stretching so that the sweatpants he’s wearing slide down low on his hips. Show-off, thinks Iwaizumi weakly.  

‘Are you reading my yearbook?’ Oikawa asks suddenly, eyes flickering to the book in Iwaizumi's hands.

Iwaizumi says, 'Um.' 

Oikawa points at him accusingly. ‘Iwa-chan! So nosy,’ he says. 

It’s a fair point, so he just passes it over to Oikawa. 

Oikawa’s amusement fades, and he takes the yearbook gingerly, as though it’s covered in poison ivy. Iwaizumi wonders how many of Oikawa's ghosts are swimming through the ink. Who the ghosts are. Oikawa - naturally - opens it straight to the page with his own smiling face on it. Iwaizumi wonders suddenly if he should have let Oikawa see it at all, but as he gazes down at his whole, unbroken self, Oikawa’s face is full of both pride and hopeless longing rather than sadness, or despair.

And really, in the end, no matter how much Iwaizumi wants to change what’s written, Oikawa is the author of his own story: it’s up to him how he engages with it. It's not up to Iwaizumi to 'let' him. 

‘I was good,’ Oikawa murmurs, with a deep sigh, leaning his head on Iwaizumi’s shoulder again.

‘I know,’ Iwaizumi says, and plants a kiss on his forehead.

Oikawa glances at Iwaizumi and smiles - a little sad; a little resigned. ‘I guess I can still be good at other things,’ he says faintly. He's partly joking, Iwaizumi thinks, but he thinks there might be a spark of hope there. The weak hope that Iwaizumi hears makes him want to catapult around the room to vent some Oikawa-induced feelings. 

‘Are you kidding?’ Iwaizumi demands. ‘You can be anything you want. Shit, you can invent new things to be.’

Oikawa makes a mildly distressed noise and prods him with a sharp finger. ‘Iwa-chan! I don’t know what to say when you say cool things like that! Stupid!’ Iwaizumi is satisfied by how flustered he looks - pink and twitchy. 

‘You better get used to it,’ Iwaizumi tells him firmly, despite feeling faintly embarrassed himself. ‘I think nice things about you all the time, idiot.’

‘Oh _no_ ,’ Oikawa wails, covering his eyes with his hands. ‘Begone, devil!’

‘ _All the time_ ,’ Iwaizumi repeats threateningly, pulling at Oikawa’s nasty little raccoon-hands scrabbling at his nasty little face. Oikawa sticks his fingers in his ears and shrieks loudly and high-pitched like the horrible inhuman entity that he is. Iwaizumi licks his hand, and Oikawa shrieks louder. He hopes Oikawa’s neighbours aren’t in.

They end up in a collapsed heap with Iwaizumi straddling Oikawa’s hips and holding him down by his wrists. Oikawa has fallen suspiciously quiet, and isn’t meeting Iwaizumi’s eyes. It’s not difficult to work out what’s going on there. Iwaizumi swallows, and moves to climb off him, but Oikawa grabs his hand.

‘Hmm,’ Iwaizumi mumbles, voice low. ‘You want something?’

‘What’s on offer?’ Oikawa asks, batting his eyelashes - playing the ingenue, Iwaizumi thinks fondly, rolling his eyes, despite the gallop of his heart assuring him that the act is working embarrassingly well.

‘Anything,’ he admits sheepishly, and he’s not just talking about the sex. He was damned from the moment he walked into Irihata’s office. He hopes Oikawa can’t hear what he's really offering, but judging by the way that Oikawa’s smirk softens into a shy smile, though, he can. Typical.

Oikawa wriggles out from underneath Iwaizumi’s loosened grip and pulls him up -  pulls him along the dark corridor to the room that Iwaizumi left him in only a few hours previously. The circumstances of entering the room for the second time couldn’t be any different, and it couldn’t feel any _better_ , any more natural, to be pushed onto Oikawa’s bed, now, Oikawa standing over him at the foot of it, back-lit so that he looks godlike. 

The knife-edge tension dissipates a little when Oikawa looks away, huffing out a laugh. ‘I - uh, haven’t done this in a while-’ Not a god then. 

‘Me neither,’ Iwaizumi confesses, quietly relieved. It’s an understatement of vast proportions: it’s been longer than a while. But Oikawa doesn’t need to know _quite_ how long it’s been. _He’d_ rather not remember how long it’s been either, frankly.

They share a self-conscious grin, and it feels good that they’re coming at this act from the same, solitary angle. They can relearn the lines as they go.

Oikawa climbs on top of him. A done deal, then. Thank God, Iwaizumi thinks faintly. No more games, no more pretending they don't want it. 

Oikawa leans over Iwaizumi so that their lips are almost touching. They’re so close - _he’s_ so close to the mouth he's been dreaming of for weeks. 

When Oikawa’s hips graze his own, it feels so electrically welcome that Iwaizumi’s own hips jerk upward. Oikawa makes a tiny humming noise low in his throat, and - finally -  kisses him as hard as Iwaizumi wants him to. Finally, finally, he thinks over and over. It’s here; we made it, it's done. 

At the first touch of Oikawa’s tongue to his lips, Iwaizumi makes a little whimpering gasp that he’s sure Oikawa will use as a bargaining chip later, but all the weeks of pent-up lust and worry and desperation are finally flowering into something good. Something _delicious_.

Oikawa lets more of his weight fall onto Iwaizumi so that their hips are pressed together while they kiss, incrementally more messy and craving, clinging, like they’re both each other’s lifeboats.

‘Off,’ Oikawa snarls, pulling at Iwaizumi’s shirt.

Iwaizumi has never stripped so fast. He rolls them over so he can kiss Oikawa’s shoulder, bite his neck, mark him up. Make everyone understand that Oikawa’s taken, now.

Oikawa’s body is as pretty as the rest of him - a little on the thin side, but Iwaizumi’s already thinking of ways to keep him fat and happy forever. He leans down to suck at one of Oikawa’s pink nipples, and grins shark-like at the shaky gasp-turned-moan he hears for his efforts. ‘Good?’ he asks slyly, although he knows the answer - and shit, his voice is a lot lower than he’s used to hearing.

‘Nn, shut up,’ Oikawa manages, giving up on supporting his own head and letting it fall back onto the pillows. It’s a good opportunity for Iwaizumi to suck a bruise into Oikawa’s bared neck, loving how Oikawa squirms for it. He grinds down firmly against Oikawa and could _weep_ at the feeling of flesh-covered-iron through Oikawa’s sweatpants, even with the sensation muted through his jeans.

‘Those too,’ Oikawa gasps out, right on cue, already looking mussed-up and pink, as though they’ve already fucked, not just kissed like frantic teenagers.

Iwaizumi makes a noise of intense agreement. He doesn’t want to detach himself from Oikawa in order to get his jeans off, though, so it takes some wriggling and manoeuvring and kicking, but then there’s only one layer separating them, and Iwaizumi bites another rough kiss into Oikawa’s shoulder.

‘You too,’ he says, stroking a hand under Oikawa’s sweatpants, along his hipbone, letting his hand travel close to where Oikawa wants it, but never landing there.

‘Tease,’ Oikawa moans, lifting his hips so that Iwaizumi can pull the damn pants off.

Finally: Oikawa, naked, spread out in front of him, watching him from near-black eyes, chest rising and falling fast - _for_ him, and because of him. It’s a religious experience, and Iwaizumi is for damn sure a convert.

There are so many things he wants to do the pliant, squirmy body in front of him - he wants to carnally honour every part of him, but it’s their first time, and he knows that it’s not going to last long for either of them. After another starry moment of appreciative staring - that he's _allowed to do_! - Iwaizumi makes his decision: he wriggles down Oikawa’s body and takes him into his mouth.

Oikawa’s back arches immediately in helpless, agonising pleasure. High pitched and trembling, he gasps ‘Oh _God_ -’ as Iwaizumi takes his cock as deep as he can, working the rest of it in his hand. It’s worship, for Iwaizumi: with every suck, every lick, he wants Oikawa to hear _this is what you do to me, this is what I want to do for you._ Oikawa’s hips feel as though they’re vibrating with how much tension they’re holding onto - Iwaizumi is glad for Oikawa’s iron will, because although he _really_ doesn’t hate the idea in theory, he knows that if Oikawa loses control and thrusts into his throat he won’t be able to take it. 

They’ve got next time and next time and next time, though, and Iwaizumi wants everything Oikawa wants to share.

‘Fuck, Iwa-chan,’ Oikawa moans, completely unshackled by his emotions, now, words blurring together as he alternates between gritted teeth and open-mouthed gasps. ‘I’m gonna -’

Yes, _yes_ , Iwaizumi thinks, delirious. _Please_. He sucks Oikawa through the earthquake - relishes hearing him cry out - and swallows everything he can.

When it’s over, and he draws back wiping his mouth, Oikawa is panting, chest heaving like a bellows. ‘Fuck,’ he says again, laughing. ‘I can’t move.’

Iwaizumi flops down next to him, whole body tight with urgency. His own cock _has_ to get some relief in the next thirty seconds, or he’s going to _die_ , and that really will ruin the day. He gets a hand around himself and keens at how good it feels to get some pressure where he really, really needs it.

‘I can move for _that_ ,’ Oikawa says, wonderful _, wonderful_ Oikawa - pushing his hand away and replacing it with his own.

‘Please,’ Iwaizumi gasps, past caring about pride, or manliness, or anything other than Oikawa's fist. He’s always liked Oikawa’s hands - delicate and elegant, and long-fingered - and now he _loves_ them as they work him fast and clever and hard. There’s no tease in it, no light touches: neither of them, he knows, had the patience for a drawn-out encounter. He’s grateful. 

He comes in Oikawa’s hand, muffling his whimpering moans as best he can in the palm of his hand.

Oikawa wrinkles his nose and wipes his hand on the sheets. Iwaizumi, basking in the post-orgasm honey dripping over his entire being, thinks they are going to have to discuss that habit.

Later, though. Everything later. For now, just this. Oikawa curled up at his side, one hand held possessively on his hip, and his head draped across his chest. His eyelids are already drooping. Iwaizumi thinks he has the right idea, and closes his eyes too. His last thought is of how warm Oikawa’s body feels next to his own.

When he wakes, there’s a blue sunrise glow outside, but the space next to him is empty. He looks at the bedside clock. Yellow glowing numbers inform him that it's 6:42 a.m. There’s the faint sound of running water from somewhere in the flat. It’s safe and warm in their private universe, and Iwaizumi takes a minute to wallow in the good feeling.

The contentment, though, gives way - as always -  to wondering what Oikawa is up to. He throws on Oikawa’s too-tight dressing gown, and pads down the hallway. Oikawa is in the kitchen, humming to himself, in the same pair of low-slung sweatpants that Iwaizumi is intensely thankful for. For a moment he hangs back, happy to watch Oikawa in front of the stove, sex-and-sleep hair shining almost gold in the yellow light, humming tunelessly to himself.

When Iwaizumi makes his way across the room, Oikawa starts, and turns around. He smiles beatifically. Iwaizumi wonders how the hell he got so lucky. ‘Work today?’ Oikawa asks hopefully, clearly angling for a ‘no’.

‘I’m calling in,’ Iwaizumi declares flatly, without a shred of conscience. An easy victory for Oikawa. He closes the gap between them and wraps his arms around Oikawa’s torso.

Oikawa leans his head back on Iwaizumi’s shoulder, relaxing into the embrace for a moment, before wrenching away with a sudden noise of dissent. ‘Oh - Iwa-chan, you distracted me, now look -’

Iwaizumi looks as bidden, and realises what he’s walked in on.

Oikawa’s making them pancakes. There’s a bottle of syrup next to the stove-top, and a stack of already-finished pancakes neatly placed on a white plate, and a burned husk of pancake in the bottom of the skillet. Iwaizumi can’t help the lump in his throat from forming at the sight of what is, essentially, a burned mess, at this point. Again! _Fuck_ , how does Oikawa push his buttons so effectively, every time?

‘You’ve ruined this one,’ Oikawa says mutinously, giving him a narrow-eyed scowl.

‘I think you’ll find _you_ ruined it,’ Iwaizumi says blithely. It’s no good lying, after all. ‘It doesn’t matter. You’ve made enough to feed an army.’

‘Or one Iwa-chan,’ Oikawa says snippily, sniggering when Iwaizumi gives him the finger.

‘I unwrapped the kotatsu,’ Oikawa says, proud, chest puffed out. ‘Let’s eat there.’

It’s a start. And Iwaizumi is hungry.

‘Good job,’ Iwaizumi tells him, and means it. Oikawa glances away again - it’s still hard for him to accept straightforward compliments. Iwaizumi is going to destroy his resistance piece by piece, until Oikawa loves hearing what Iwaizumi loves.

They take the food through to the living room, where, as promised, the kotatsu stands in the middle of the room as something new and promising, sprouting from the floor. Their knees touch under it - it’s clearly for one person - but Iwaizumi finds that he likes it. He’s finding he likes a lot of things.

‘Hey,’ Oikawa says, suddenly, in a rush. ‘Iwa-chan. That thing you said last night - me too, _obviously_ , but I didn’t want to say it then in case you thought it was just like, an _in the moment_ thing. And then I didn’t say it during the sex, because everyone says it during sex and no one _means_ it. But people mean it when they say it at breakfast, I think.’ He pauses, and swallows. ‘I love you too. If it wasn’t obvious. And thank you.’ He’s bright red now, poking at his pancakes, and Iwaizumi is transported back to their first pancake date - when he’d done the same thing, for such a different reason.  

Iwaizumi looks up at him. ‘It was pretty obvious,’ he says grandly, and tries not to burst out laughing as Oikawa squawks with a mouth full of pancake, pointing his knife at him until Iwaizumi says, ‘Fine, fine. I accept. And still love you. Dumbass.’

‘No, no, I take it back,’ Oikawa says firmly, but they’re both trying to not smile and both failing miserably. This is good, Iwaizumi thinks, amazed; this is  _it,_ the exact life he wants. It's been so long since he's recognised his life as something he wants to really experience - to be present in, not escape from - that he has to duck his head to hide whatever his face is doing.

'I love you,' he says again, instead, hoarse and honest, and watches as Oikawa collapses into a cross little ball and rolls away from him. 'Play fair,' he yells back, from somewhere near the door. 

Iwaizumi elects not to.

 

*

Later that day, when the two of them are back curled up in Oikawa's bed, Iwaizumi gives Hanamaki another call. 

'Yo,' he says.

'How's this for an exclusive,' Iwaizumi says, and passes the phone to Oikawa. 

'Hanamaki-chaaaaan,' Oikawa trills. God, he's awful, Iwaizumi thinks lovingly. 'It turns out I'm retiring from volleyball in order to steal all Iwa-chan's melonbread and all his friends and money even though he doesn't have any-'

Iwaizumi wrestles the phone off his moron boyfriend. 'Sorry, he's an idiot,' he says. 

'Is that fucking Oikawa Tooru?' Hanamaki demands, thunderstruck. 'What the fuck?' Iwaizumi feels a delicious stab of smugness at being able to surprise his most unsurprisable friend. 

'It's fucking Oikawa Tooru,' Iwaizumi agrees. 'And I'm fucking Oikawa Tooru. Later.' 

He ends the call, to an immediate flurry of all-caps texts from Hanamaki.

 

**IWAIZUMI ARE YOU SERIOUS**

 

**PUT HIM BACK ON**

 

**WHAT THE FUCK**

 

**I hate you**

 

**Ok but seriously, happy for you bro**

 

**WHAT THE FUCK THOUGH**

 

**PUT HIM BACK ON!!!!**

 

* * *

 

‘How has your mood been lately?’ Irihata asks him.

That's a question. 

Iwaizumi thinks about Oikawa in his bed, in his shirt. Sleeping, healing, growing. He thinks about the pancakes. The telescope Oikawa’s been using for the first time in years. He thinks about Oikawa's brand new windowsill herb garden, stretching its little trusting leaves up towards the sun as Oikawa tends to it with gentle, loving hands. Oikawa with his sleeves rolled up, making things new, and mending the holes in the old. The boxes - empty, and flat, leaning against the hallway wall until Oikawa can be bothered to take them to be recycled - to be made new. 

‘It’s been -’ Iwaizumi suddenly has trouble speaking, and he swallows a few times before answering. ‘It’s been good _,_ ’ he says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH GOD, i didn't expect to become as obsessed with this fic as i became. 
> 
> we made it though lol. thank you so much for all the nice comments - they mean everything to me, bc i am really not confident w/ writing fic 
> 
> For anyone who’s interested (as i am) in diagnostic procedure: i didn’t write oikawa with any particular diagnosis in mind - MH is messy and not always quantifiable, & a career-ending injury can rattle the most stable individual, let alone an oikawa growing up in a highly pressured environment without anyone to tell him to knock it tf off. 
> 
> iwaizumi is more a simple case of just kind of hating the rut he's found himself unable to get out of - there's nothing really wrong with him
> 
> i don't actually like pancakes. i don't know why they became a thing
> 
> i am still tempted to write something in this verse from oikawa's POV

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm English, which accounts for the S-spelling variations! and this is my first fic in 84 years oh god
> 
>  I have a secret anime tumblr (the worst words I've ever written) @ weirdmilk.tumblr.com - it's just reblogging art atm, come chat to me!
> 
> _p.s. there may be angst in further chapters but a happy ending. i'm not a savage_


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